Heartkey
by Natsu1
Summary: But Ron doesn’t see this. Sometimes I wonder if Harry still sees her this way. And I admit, sometimes I too have been guilty of rushing to shield her. But not often. It’s been a long time since I saw Ginny as a little girl."
1. 1

Disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter, or anything vaguely even related to the series. This is just a little bit of fanwork, really, I'm not makin' a profit here, people.

Note: This is the prelude to a much larger, intertwined story. Nothing will be as it seems.

* * *

He's lying on the bed, reclined, inches from me. Some time or another that I can't pinpoint; his skin lost its ghostly paleness and began to take on a burnished copper. His body, too, changed, became as rippling and taut as if carved in stone. The arms that rest behind his head are sleek and sculpted as well. The one thing that has not changed is the look in his eyes, the pale awareness of everything, and yet the harsh ability to set it aside and focus inwardly. He's like a Grecian sculpture; a Roman painting of male perfection.But you'd expect that.You'd expect that the girls would whisper in the hallways. Watch him covertly in groups- never alone.And it's not just Slytherin.It's really something like curiosity and scorn mixed in fair amounts. Their loyalty to the Boy Who Lived would have them mock and ostracize him. But the part inside that they don't fully understand, the part that speaks to them in their dreams, would have them watch him, whisper about him, and yes, want him.You might say that I've got a head start.His control of himself is as opposite of my own disposition as you could reach. It stems from his lack of ability to control the world around him. His father took this ability from him the moment he entered this world.Draco has always been somebody's bitch.You can see that now, in the way he reclines, heavy-lidded eyes gazing outward while he gazes inward. He seems relaxed, but his muscles are on alert. At the slightest movement that startles him, he'll lash out involuntarily. It's a reflex, by now.In my own little way I'd like to think I'm helping.I reach out, slowly; let my hand waver in his vision, before letting it rest on his stomach. The muscles in his abdomen flinch, but he makes no other move. His eyes don't focus. I'm not important enough to draw his mind back from wherever he's let it wander. But that's all right.To me, in a way, he's the same.Wisps of pale hair frame his face. He's known for keeping it back; slick, sleek. But lately, he's become absent-minded enough to let it be. He's let a lot of things be in the past few months.Not that I have any room to talk.I trace patterns over his bare stomach with my fingernails, watching the white lines that appear and disappear as I move. His eyebrows twitch, but he will not be lulled back to me.Back to truth.He'd rather stay, I know, in his fantasy world, or his miserable thoughts. Whichever. They both usually run together.I know.In threat of becoming lost in my own thoughts, he relents. His own hand catches mine, and stills it. I let my palm rest on his warm skin, brush soft ash-blonde curls. I can feel his heartbeat through my hand, slow at first, gaining rhythm.  
  
He eases up off of the bed, sighing as though he's been asleep all this time, and I've just awoken him. He squeezes my hand as he rises, letting go to stand. I lay back, giving him space to ease himself back into control. He paces momentarily, using freshly-callused palms to distractedly push the blondish locks from out of his face. Impenetrable gray eyes focus."How long have you been here?"I stretch out on the bed, yawning. It's safe to be casual, now."Classes finished twenty minutes ago."He flashes me an indistinguishable look. "Not watching me sleep, I hope.""Hardly," I say, twisting a lock of my already careless dark-brown hair."Uh huh." He dresses slowly, gathering his clothes around his body even as he gathers that thick, impenetrable coldness that has made him so successful in his self-mutilation process. The Prefect room he rarely sleeps in rings with silence. It doesn't matter, though. It's a comfortable silence.  
  
When he's done, he turns to me. Sharp eyes rake up my body, leaving me feeling uncomfortable and exposed."Stop that," I scold, giving him my worst look. "It's bad enough, you know, with Ron.""What?" He hisses, pretending further that there's any strength left in him to be mean-spirited or cruel. "You're comparing me to that tactless Weasley?" In one fluid motion, he's cut the distance between us, tearing up reason or thought by the roots and scattering them around us like falling rain. He's on top of me, pressing me into the bed until I can barely breathe and eyes of the coldest metal are suddenly snapping and hot.I gasp, but struggling is really useless. All of that muscle he's put on has replaced the delicate curves of his body. He could hold me down and keep it that way, if that was the sort of person he was.In a flash, he's done making his point, and eases back onto his elbows, leveling our faces. Eyes that hold so many shades of gray have softened considerably, letting the only person who's ever seen into him once again read his soul.

I cradle his face in my hands, letting my fingernails trace the only delicate part of him. His features are classic Roman, from the petal-like lips to the straight nose. In his face he's still beautiful, almost feminine sometimes. It's a strong contrast between the body he's trained so hard to become a masculine machine.

"Draco," I state, in a tone of matter-of-fact sadness.He eyes my lips coolly as I speak. And in an instant of amusement, a long- dead familiar look graces his calm features.He smirks."Mudblood," Is all he replies. 


	2. 2

Ginny is mostly unaware of her beauty, of the athletic grace that powers her long legs as she jogs across the Quidditch field.

Ron holds her broom in the sidelines, a teasing smile on his face. He knows better though, as does she, and as do most of us present. We all know that if she wanted to, she could pluck it from his hands as easily as taking something from an infant's grasp. Ron doesn't like to let on, though, that his sister is now as tall as he is, if not taller, with powerful arms and legs and fists strong enough to knock his block off probably, if she was mad enough.

He doesn't want to admit it, so he pretends.

Like we all do.

Truth is harsher, though, as his sister comes up on him, and he's forced to acquiesce the broom to save face. Pride means a lot- I've come to find- in the Weasley family. He does it with a smile, though. Grudging love for his not-so-little sister.

She laughs, smiling an apology, squeezing his hand. Her voice carries over the field, drawing attention. It's almost amazing that this same lively voice that everyone now knows started out as a quiet squeak brought on by a first crush.

I smile, smiling at her smile, and duck my head back to the heavy book spread in my lap. It's Quidditch season again, brought on by the brisk weather. Christmas will be soon, with all the relief-filled distractions that come with the holiday. All of Draco's hard effort will temporarily pay off in this season. His aimless, wandering mind will be brought in for a short time to burn and glorify in the challenge of the sport he chooses to play. It's the one passion he can afford. Beautiful art, disguised as calculated war.

The only time he can be himself.

And he's one of the best at what he does. The intensity he brings to the game is of a genuine want to meet the challenge and win. Long ago he earned the position that his father had originally bought him into: Seeker. When Draco's eyes aren't gazing inward, they're usually locked on the Snitch, following it with an almost mad intensity that leaves his teammates and opposition in his wake.

His only competition is the fire-haired goddess of Gryffindor.

While Draco Malfoy is screaming through the air in a vicious blur towards the Snitch, Ginny Weasley is powering through the stunned ranks of teammate and adversary alike, blazing like a phoenix, Quaffle-in-arm.

Most people at Hogwarts who remember the excitement of the rivalry between the Slytherin and Gryffindor Seekers have either graduated by now, or were too young to care. The Boy Who Lived no longer seems within the same playing field anymore. Always one step behind the Slytherin Seeker, always a moment's breadth short of catching the Snitch.

"Gryffindor used to be the best."

I look up; my thoughts jarring back to the world around me. The book is suddenly heavy in my lap, and I feel myself resenting the need to keep up pretense. A primal urge rises in me to throw it forcefully aside, and to flee my fixed position. I fight it.

"Harry used to be the best."

At this, I can't help replying.

"Harry's still the best," I assure him. "He's just...got more on his mind, is all." I fidget. "Can't play forever," I murmur, mostly to myself. Ron scowls, having apparently joined me only moments ago as a good-natured practice commenced below us between scattered players. I let my attention focus.

Ginny is laughing, her voice rising on the icy winter breeze. It's warming to hear, and I can't help the softening of my mood as I watch her playfully tug at Harry's broom. Draco fidgets, as uncomfortable as I am. In a flash of barely-veiled impatience, he kicks off.

They follow shortly, led by Ginny. She flashes her brother a quick smile. Using one hand to grip her broom, she waves at me. The gesture is unique. Her fingers stay slightly curled inward as she makes the curious wave. Ron mutters to himself, beside me, as I return the wave, feeling breathless. She flashes a confused smile at my expression, before turning back to beginning of the game.

"Blimey, it's not really fair."

I ignore him, focusing on the twisting, flashing forms.

"No one wants to play with Slytherin, do they? So they get all their teammates."

"It's just practice, Ron." I hear myself say, automatically placating. "It's not like they have any other good players besides Malfoy."

"Suppose not," He replies, making it seem as if he's glad to give in. Silence envelopes us, high up in the stands. This time, the silence is awkward. A sharp wind picks up. Ron tugs on his scarf, uncomfortable and cold. He sighs, impatient.

He'd like to be down there.

"Say, 'Mione," He begins carefully.

Below, Ginny is dodging Bludgers.

I feel like I'm doing the same.

Ron pauses for a moment to watch his sister- old habit. He's still trying to look after her. And whether its worry or guilt, he imagines he has some sort of responsibility. Ginny would laugh to hear it, I know. Not that warm, skin-tingling laughter. No. The bitter kind that reaches the eyes and turns them cold. It's not what happened five years ago that she holds against him.

It's all the years after.

But Ron doesn't see this. He can't see past all of his worry- guilt? - to see that she's no longer the little girl he still assumes she is. Sometimes I wonder if Harry still sees her this way. And I admit, sometimes I too have been guilty of rushing to shield her. But not often.

It's been a long time since I saw Ginny as a little girl.

"Close one," Ron sighs, easing back. He claps his hands. "C'mon now, Ginny, let's pick up the pace!" His little sister chooses to ignore the comment.

* * *

She's sprawled easily on my bed, as if she originally grew from it and has only lately been detaching herself and wondering around campus. On the nights when Draco cannot be bothered from his self-introspection, she can most readily be found on my bed- On my bed, not in.

It's a big difference. Really.

She enjoys our pseudo-closeness, as much as I detest it, and strives, especially lately, to cement it. Because- and bear with me, although Ginny has become the Goddess of Gryffindor, the fire-haired beauty- she still has not escaped the Weasley penchant for a genetic case of bad luck. Ginny will never escape her family, and will never choose to escape them. She's as much a Weasley as Ron is- bumbling at times, decidedly poor, but loyal, too, and passionate, and...

Ah. There I go again. Damn.

She smiles, waves a hand in front of my eyes, wishing to draw me out of my thoughts. Though she can no more read my thoughts that stop them, she doesn't like where they are heading. And in confusion, she tries to still my mind.

"You know, one of these times I'm going to catch you two." Twinkling brown eyes let me know she's trying to be gentle. Ah, strange eyes. Reddish-brown, like no other's I've seen. Red tinted with a magic only a handful of Wizards and Witches have ever felt the touch of. Ron finds he cannot meet his sister's eyes. Harry can only commiserate.

"Catch who?" Not that I pretend I don't know. I pretend only that it's worth hiding; not talking about.

"You know," She ducks her head, lets the copper, gold, cinnamon, scarlet, crimson, ah... lets it fall in her face, shroud her roguish Weasley eyes. "Malfoy," She whispers. I don't flinch, meeting her eyes. She holds my gaze for a moment, before smiling softly, looking down almost shyly. "I guess most everyone talks about it. But I didn't believe it at first." She looks up with sincerity to placate me, should I need it. I don't.

"Catch us?" I say calmly, turning the page of a class book. "Would it be catching?"

The comment throws her off temporarily, and I can feel her mind working. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she bites her lip, narrows her eyes, thinks hard.

"If you came to gossip..." I extend the invitation to drop it.

"I'm only saying, Mi," She says playfully, flipping a page in her own book, more for the noise than for the show, "If you want to talk about... you know," Her smile is mischievous.

"Sod off." Damn it.

She looks more annoyed than hurt. "You're mad at me?"

"Thought you came to study." Blimey. Now I'm pretending for real.

She pauses, gets a crafty look. "Did I?"

"Did you?" I ask, letting my bad mood vent. "Did you bloody come to study or to pry into my personal life?"

"Why are you so defensive, Mi?" She shoots back, sitting up to attain a better fighting stance. "And when was the last time we studied together, anyway?"

Silence falls, though the question is ringing off the old stonework around us. She seems to realize what she has said is ridiculous, but by the expression on my face, necessary. I sit back, close my book. The sound seems final.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask calmly. There's an angry buzzing sound in my ears, and I feel slightly light-headed. She looks slightly lost.

"I don't know," She says, looking guilty. "Only, when _do _we study in here? I can't remember..." Her face is quiet. The emotions she so carelessly wears on her sleeve are all silent, for once. White sound. Her mind is trying to process something, and I feel short of breath.

"We've fucked," I blurt. She flinches. "For a while now, we've been doing it," I soften my words. It works.

"Oh," She says softly. We're silent for another few seconds. Finally, "Well I _knew _that, Mi." She rolls her eyes. "I didn't think he was courting you or something." I'm surprised to realize I can still fake a laugh.

"'Course he is," I say lightly. "I'm expecting to meet his mum and dad anytime. I'm a bit nervous, but he's says they'll treat me like the daughter they never had." Less surprising is my ability to still ramble.

"Hermione!" She laughs, bapping me with one of the squishy, plush Prefect pillows that come with the room and position. The blow, not-so-surprisingly strong, but surprising nonetheless, catches me off guard, and the world tips as I find myself suddenly scrabbling to stop an embarrassing and slightly painful drop to the stone floor.

The floor stops rising, though, as the Goddess of Gryffindor makes what I can only imagine from my position is an incredible leap across scrolls, books, and bed to stop me. The edge of the bed, however, is against us, and our combined weight sends us laughing to the floor in a heap of arms and legs.

From her position, crushing me, Ginny cannot stop laughing. Her laughter is real, though, and contagious, and I find myself thankful for the new outlook on the fire-haired beauty: under her.

"_Honestly_, Virginia," I wheeze, feeling dangerously giddy. "If I'd known the only reason you wanted me to help you with your schoolwork was so that you could-"

Beautifully, astoundingly, before Ginny's smiling eyes, the door creaks open, and I realize I didn't hear the password being given.

"Well, well, well," And it's happy, although she can't tell.

Ginny's face turns red, starting at her cheeks and blossoming outward. Her mouth clicks shut from its previous laugh. Of course she can't tell. Because like everyone else, she doesn't understand, or, really, she hasn't been given a chance to understand. To her, this scene, emerging fantastically before us, is mortifying. Draco, standing in the doorway, terrifies her. Because the look on his face is not what she expects. What she expects, she can deal with.

This is something bewilderingly different.

Draco's face is set in an easy look. He's already dropped his maliciousness and spite for the day. And once put away for the night, Draco is loathe to conjure these charades until bright and early tomorrow morning. And so, he settles for something different.

Casualness.

He eases off the doorway, kicking the door shut behind him, and walks around us, knocking my carefully kept books of the bed to collapse onto it in a heap of manliness. Several heartbeats pass, while Ginny stares at me in shock. Draco breaks the silence.

"If you're done just staring at each other, I suggest the bed."

He can't stop laughing.

Not that I feel like stopping him. It's rare when his laughter has a genuine ring to it, as it does now. His voice can be nice when he's not controlling it. He's laughing more at my awkwardness on the floor than Ginny's awkwardness in getting up and then pulling me up. But he does think it's funny the way she can pull me up, and I know she realizes this also as she does it. Her face hasn't lost its tinge, but she's relaxing slightly, at seeing how calm I appear.

To be embarrassed now would be to give away that there was something to be embarrassed _about_.

Ginny steps back as soon as I'm up, biting her lip. Her mind is still associated with the boy Malfoy who once made her life a living hell when she _was _a little girl. She doesn't know the man, Draco. It's understandable that there's still a healthy dose of fear behind her embarrassment and uneasiness.

However, the laughter helps. The tones of his voice in real amusement ease her doubts, and, perhaps seeing this, he stops. Fixing his unreadable eyes on her, he silently commands her to return to her uneasiness. She doesn't.

"Well," She begins breathlessly. "If I would have known you'd be by..." She trails off. I take pity on her.

"It's all right, Gin, I didn't know he would." This I follow with a frown in his direction. He waves flippantly at me.

"If I would have known you'd have company..." He's having fun. Mostly though, he's just relieved. One of us may, he thinks, have some chance. He continues pushing buttons, ever in control, wishing to control someone else. "I can always come by when you're," A slight smile hovers around his lips. "Finished."

Ginny seems to flinch at the comment, but she knows this Malfoy better. Or at least, she _thinks _she does.

"Can it, Malfoy," She responds, gratefully falling into the familiar pattern of facing the great Harry Potter's archrival. "You're lucky as it is to have someone as wonderful as Hermione. Don't go and give me any ideas." It really is meant as a retort, not a warning, but as Draco lets it hang in the air with a slightly amused expression, it seems to become just that. Again, I come to her rescue.

"Really, Draco," I chide, "You'll be sorry tonight when you've got no one to warm your bed but your wand."

Both sets of highly contrasting eyes widen, and I feel myself growing warm in the face at the slip up.

* * *

"Progress..." He's saying. The rest of the words are thrown together, meant to cushion and support this one declaration.

I look up from where I've burrowed into the pillows, strung the sheets around me like some sort of mitigated barricade.

"Get stuffed," I reply. The pillow I've been trying off and on to suffocate myself in muffles the suggestion to the point where the only thing that is recognizable is the obvious implications. The bed shifts as he rolls over, facing me.

"It wasn't that bad." He tries again, still amused. Or hopeful, perhaps. "She _was_ sitting on you. Looked like progress to me."


End file.
